Sinners and Saints: The Nineteenth Hunger Games
by LSJLSaints
Summary: A collaboration between four authors. 24 tributes will be chosen to weather the trials and tribulations of the Nineteenth Hunger Games; who will manage to survive?
1. Prologue

**A/N: Welcome, everybody, to the Sinners and Saints SYOT collaboration! We have four authors working on the story; LadyCordeliaStuart, JaymanRepublic, SilverflowerXRavenpaw, and myself, tracelynn (Tracee). We will all be writing parts of this. I wrote a prologue to get things started. You might notice I'm trying to do a different writing style from my other stuff, so hopefully it works out okay XD Please enjoy, and next chapter will be the tribute list. There is a lot more information about submitting, etc. on the bottom. Enjoy!**

* * *

Ester Miliam, 16 - District Six Citizen

"Ester!" my mother calls from the end of the hall, standing by the door out of our house. She's dressed in the plain white dress she wears every Sunday, and she fingers the silvery cross pendant that hangs from her neck. "Your father and I are waiting!"

"Coming, mother!" I shout from my room. I quickly put up my light blonde hair in a ponytail before jogging over to the door out of our apartment, my cornflower blue dress swirling around me. My mother opens the door, and we walk swiftly together down the dimly lit hallways of the apartment complex. There's crashes and shouts galore, screams and moans too. Drugs are prominent and crime is imminent. It's the reason the good Lord has put us here, to heal all the wounds and sores of our drug addled District. At least that's what Father says.

Speaking of Father, he's waiting at the top of the stairwell, impatiently tapping the ground with his dull old dress shoes. When we arrive, his face brightens, and he takes my mother's hand and guides her down the stairs. I click down right behind them.

"Reginald, did you grab money for the collection?" my mother inquires calmly when we reach the end of the stairwell. We walk through a shady lobby and out of the greasy front doors as Father uncomfortably pats around his pockets. He grins once he sticks his hand into the breast pocket of his flannel dress shirt, retrieving the three folded bills that are stashed there.

"It's not much, but it's all we can give. The Lord understands," Father says gravely. His eyes dart suspiciously around at the darkened alleyways and smoggy skies and smeared windows and packs of hoodlums, and I wonder why God sent us here. We might as well already be in Hell.

Father keeps checking his old rusted watch as we walk stiffly down the street. The church is nearby, tucked into a gloomy corner between a liquor store and an abandoned, bombed out apartment complex, a standing relic of the Dark Days. Since it's so close to home, we don't have an excuse to be late. We make our way even quicker towards our place of worship. My mother glances up distastefully at the sign propped above the doorway into the building; it reads "Schapp's Auto Parts." Our religion is not encouraged here. The Capitol and their stern Peacekeepers do not tolerate us proclaiming the good word openly. As long as we keep our worship hidden, they leave us be. It's not the way any of us like it; the love of God could cure every pitiful deadbeat that lurks on the streets here in Six if we were allowed to open their hearts to Him. But we cannot. At least we can still profess our devotion every Sunday.

A little bell rings above the door when we walk in. Sister Thurbes waits behind the counter, and nods at us with a slim smile. She and Pastor Axle, her cousin, run the small parish, and there's about forty of us in this neighborhood who come here. We walk past the dusty waiting room and Sister, using the back door nestled in the shadows to enter the church proper.

A haphazard collection of seven dozen folding chairs, benches, and stools are crowded in a smallish backroom. The altar is near the back wall, and Pastor Axle sits behind it. About two dozen other parishioners are already here. We take our seats, and I look around a little sadly at the glum room around me. We do not have some of the furnishings of the Christians of the past. Their huge cathedrals and glittering stained glass windows no longer stand.

As the last people trickle in, Sister enters and closes the door. The Mass has begun. Pastor clears his throat to begin, but suddenly the doors bang open and several men dressed in black and navy pour into the room, their faces obscured by bright red kerchiefs. Two hold pistols in their hands, and a woman lets loose a shocked scream as one jostles her and aims at her forehead to fire.

I can't even believe it as the gunshots start filling my ears. Pastor Axle falls across the altar, and my father shields me with his body. I curl up in a ball, sobbing, as the screams echo in my ears and I try to disappear. I make myself stop crying, and I feel something warm and wet against my side. Blood. My father's blood.

 _My God, protect me. Please._

* * *

Paccator Pristis, 45 - Head Gamemaker

I yawn as I sit at the island in my spacious kitchen, flipping through articles on my touchpad. My wife, Noxa, is sitting next to me, instructing the Avox to take away our cleared plates. The red haired man, silenced by the removal of his tongue, bobs his head and carefully takes away our dishes. He scurries over to the sink and, as quietly as Avoxly possible, scrubs them clean before drying them and placing them back in the cabinets.

I swipe through news on my touchpad. Political scandals, blah blah blah, celebrity scandals, blah blah blah. President Dolus shot down my idea of a grassland arena (I know we did it two years ago, and two years before that, but it makes for more slaughter! Nowhere to hide!) so I have to come up with something else, and soon. So I'm skimming everything I can find for inspiration. I've lost the spark over the years I guess. I used to be able to dish out arenas like nothing.

One article, newly minted, catches my eye as it pops onto the screen. _48 Killed in Terrorist Shooting in District Six._ I open the article and begin to read.

 _A group of terrorists has exposed a group of "Christians" and has shot 48 of them to death earlier this morning. These terrorists have made similar attacks in other sectors of Six, as well as in parts of Eight, Nine, and Eleven. All groups attacked call themselves "Christians"; they claim to believe in some otherworldly God, and they profess their faith through something called Mass, where they read a book called the Bible. Whatever strange District tradition this is, it is being targeted around Panem it seems. Further investigation is underway._

"Since when did Dolus send the Peacekeepers to eliminate religion in the Districts?" I ask my wife. She's a key player in Panem's military, and probably knows about this. There's no way any of those District buffoons have enough coordination to put together that many orchestrated attacks in that many Districts.

"After it came to his attention at a briefing two weeks ago," Noxa replies, sighing. "He thinks it might be a seed of rebellion, so he's having Peacekeepers masquerade as terrorists and take a chunk out of their numbers, and scare them into submission. They're already all in hiding, and they don't cause trouble, but Dolus is never satisfied. You must know that," she scoffs.

"I do," I mutter, my eyes alight. "This gives me just the idea, Noxa," I announce. I turn my touchpad back on, and I pull up the phone function and hit Dolus's name under my contacts list. I hold up the slim piece of tech to my ear and wait for the President of Panem to answer.

"Yes, Paccator? Have something that won't disappoint me?" President Dolus sneers once he answers.

"I do sir. I really do," I reply, on cloud nine. This will be the best one yet.

* * *

 **A/N: That was fun! I'm guessing the arena should be easier to guess now if the title wasn't enough to help you out.**

 **This is going to be a first come, first serve type of story, just because we want to fill up quickly and not have to waste people's time by turning down submissions they spend a lot of time on.**

 **There is no set form, really. If you want something of structure, you can just PM us and we'll supply one. The next chapter will be an example form that you can use if you want, and the chapter after that will be the tribute list.**

 **Keep in mind that this is an earlier Games. Careers are uncommon at this point; there will not be any in this story. So please do not submit a Career to any District.**

 **Enjoy your submitting! Three of us have written/are writing a SYOT, and two of us have completed one before, so believe us when we say we will finish this story for sure. Once we have some tributes we'll start writing, and we have a system in place for who writes what. If you're interested in which writers are writing each District, that information is located on the tribute list page :) We'll be waiting to see your guys's submissions! :D**

 **\- SinnersXSaints**


	2. Example Form

**A/N: Here's an example form if you need one! It has all the things we'd like to know; you can add or subtract stuff, this is just a suggestion.**

* * *

 **Name:**

 **Age:**

 **Gender:**

 **District:**

 **Appearance: It can be a blurb or a paragraph, I don't care. There's a decent chance I'll hardly describe them. Fair warning.**

 **Personality: Doesn't have to be crazy, but don't give us just a couple sentences. You don't have to make it a page either. Just a fair paragraph describing them well, not overboard but not very minimal, would be optimal.**

 **Backstory: Doesn't have to be crazy; just give us a little bit on how their life is.**

 **Reaped/Volunteered:**

 **Reaction/Reason:**

 **Reaping Scene: Reapings can get boring. If you don't want your tribute's first POV to be a Reaping, send in what you do want here.**

 **Family: You can say everything about each member, or just names and positions.**

 **Token: It's optional, and I might not mention it, but if you don't put it in you almost certainly won't get one**

 **Reaping Outfit: You don't have to fill this in. If you don't, it's automatically a T-Shirt and jeans.**

 **Parade Outfit: Please list some idea. If you need I'll fill it in, but it will probably be stupid and crummy.**

 **Interview Outfit: If you don't fill this one in, I will, but it'll be lame. Like a white dress.**

 **Interview Angle: Please be creative. Not everyone is nice and innocent. I'll accept it, but it's way more fun to read someone who tries to be a clown**

 **Games Plan: Everyone running and hiding makes it boring. I'll take it, but I'll probably pick people off with mutts if that happens.**

 **Strengths: I don't care how many you have, but try not to be too crazy. That thirteen-year-old from 11 is not going to be buff and know how to use every weapon. Also, don't overlook simple things like being small so she can hide.**

 **Weaknesses: You can have many or few, I don't mind. If you do stupid things like "He's too perfect!" I will have him spend so long trying to be perfect that he starves. Other than that, I try not to be too harsh.**

 **Where they go in the Training Center: They can go as many places as you want, but the more places they go the less they know about each thing.**

 **What they show the Gamemakers:**

 **Training Score: I take what's given to me. It doesn't really matter anyways, since you're the sponsors.**

 **Capitol Scenes: No guarantee that it'll get written, but it might.**

 **Other: Are they allergic to bananas? Do they like persian cats more than sphynxes? Does the color yellow disgust them? This is where you can put random stuff like that. Again, it might not get written, but it might.**

 **Preferred Death: The odds are your tribute won't win. This is pretty much a consolation prize if they don't.**

 **Bloodbath Plan:**

 **Will they die in the Bloodbath?: Let's face it, some tributes have to die in the Bloodbath. If I don't get enough Bloodbaths, I'll choose some random ones.**

 **Predicted Placement: It might not matter, but if you expect your tribute to get 19th, they're less likely to win.**

 **Allying or No: If you want them to ally, you'll need to get both parties' permission.**

 **Fight or Flight Instinct: Will they run from confrontation, or face it head on?**


	3. Tribute List

**TRIBUTE LIST (FULL!)**

* * *

 **District One Female: Coira Terra, 15 - david12341 (Allying with Kaden)**

 **District One Male: Kaden Lutz, 16 - david12341 (Allying with Coira)**

 **District Two Female: Bellona Marlin, 16 - Adithya23 (No allies)**

 **District Two Male: Cane Temple, 17 - DestroyNotCreate (No allies)**

 **District Three Female: Ether Pascal, 16 - Winter's Writing (possibly allying)**

 **District Three Male: Moses Grintwood, 14 - ColdWindsRising (seeking one ally with pleasant personality)**

 **District Four Female: Pearl Astor, 17 - (Seeking allies that will attend to her needs)**

 **District Four Male: Tristan Wells, 17 - CallmeLegend (Seeking one stronger ally)**

 **District Five Female: Natalie Bolter, 17 - EverlastingImpression (Maybe allying)**

 **District Five Male: Virgil Gates, 16 - aceswims (Seeking allies)**

 **District Six Female: Marguerite Briem, 18 - MRKenn (no allies)**

 **District Six Male: Lonnie Radclyffe, 16 - lmklein20 (cautiously looking for a single ally)**

 **District Seven Female: Rachel Ivy, 14 - CallmeLegend (Seeking older allies)**

 **District Seven Male: Kyle Jester, 16 - DestroyerOverlord (Seeking allies)**

 **District Eight Female: Parnelle Corwin, 14 - lmklein20 (no allies)**

 **District Eight Male: Juki Kearne, 15 - goldie031 (probably not allying)**

 **District Nine Female: Amaryllis Goldleaf, 17 - Golden Moon Huntress (allying with Dove, seeking more younger allies)**

 **District Nine Male: Samson Honey, 18 - EverlastingImpression (Not allying)**

 **District Ten Female: Charli Bowens, 15 - DestroyerOverlord (Seeking allies)**

 **District Ten Male: Jonathan Hedge, 18 - Adithya23 (Seeking stronger allies)**

 **District Eleven Female: Orsay Orchards, 13 - SparkHat (Seeking allies)**

 **District Eleven Male: Dove Greenling, 12 - Golden Moon Huntress (allying with Amaryllis and maybe district partner)**

 **District Twelve Female: Reina Bolstad, 18 - LokiThisIsMadness (Seeking allies, possibly with District partner)**

 **District Twelve Male: Jarrett Colson, 18 - goldie031 (Cautiously seeking allies with one other)**

 **(By the way, you may submit up to 4 tributes)**

 **(Silver is writing Districts 8, 10, and 12. Tracee is writing Districts 1, 6, and 9. LCS is writing Districts 3, 4, and 11. Jayman is writing Districts 2, 5, and 7.)**


	4. One Reaping

**TRIBUTE LIST (FULL!)**

* * *

 **District One Female: Coira Terra, 15 - david12341 (Allying with Kaden)**

 **District One Male: Kaden Lutz, 16 - david12341 (Allying with Coira)**

 **District Two Female: Bellona Marlin, 16 - Adithya23 (No allies)**

 **District Two Male: Cane Temple, 17 - DestroyNotCreate (No allies)**

 **District Three Female: Ether Pascal, 16 - Winter's Writing (possibly allying)**

 **District Three Male: Moses Grintwood, 14 - ColdWindsRising (seeking one ally with pleasant personality)**

 **District Four Female: Pearl Astor, 17 - (Seeking allies that will attend to her needs)**

 **District Four Male: Tristan Wells, 17 - CallmeLegend (Seeking one stronger ally)**

 **District Five Female: Natalie Bolter, 17 - EverlastingImpression (Maybe allying)**

 **District Five Male: Virgil Gates, 16 - aceswims (Seeking allies)**

 **District Six Female: Marguerite Briem, 18 - MRKenn (no allies)**

 **District Six Male: Lonnie Radclyffe, 16 - lmklein20 (cautiously looking for a single ally)**

 **District Seven Female: Rachel Ivy, 14 - CallmeLegend (Seeking older allies)**

 **District Seven Male: Kyle Jester, 16 - DestroyerOverlord (Seeking allies)**

 **District Eight Female: Parnelle Corwin, 14 - lmklein20 (no allies)**

 **District Eight Male: Juki Kearne, 15 - goldie031 (probably not allying)**

 **District Nine Female: Amaryllis Goldleaf, 17 - Golden Moon Huntress (allying with Dove and Orsay, seeking more younger allies)**

 **District Nine Male: Samson Honey, 18 - EverlastingImpression (Not allying)**

 **District Ten Female: Charli Bowens, 15 - DestroyerOverlord (Seeking allies)**

 **District Ten Male: Jonathan Hedge, 18 - Adithya23 (Seeking stronger allies)**

 **District Eleven Female: Orsay Orchards, 13 - SparkHat (Allying with Amaryllis and Dove)**

 **District Eleven Male: Dove Greenling, 12 - Golden Moon Huntress (allying with Amaryllis and Orsay, possibly more** **)**

 **District Twelve Female: Reina Bolstad, 18 - LokiThisIsMadness (Seeking allies, possibly with District partner)**

 **District Twelve Male: Jarrett Colson, 18 - goldie031 (Cautiously seeking allies with one other)**

 **(By the way, you may submit up to 4 tributes)**

 **(Silver is writing Districts 8, 10, and 12. Tracee is writing Districts 1, 6, and 9. LCS is writing Districts 3, 4, and 11. Jayman is writing Districts 2, 5, and 7.)**


	5. Three Reaping

**In the most innocent of ways, there are graphic depictions of death in Moses' part.**

* * *

Ether Pascal- 16

 _496620796f752063616e207265616420746869732074797065202262616e616e612220696e2074686520726576696577732e..._

To anyone but someone from Three, and to plenty of people from Three, it was just a string of numbers. To me, it was as plain as a picture book. It was the middle of the night, which was my favorite time to work. There were no noises to distract me, and my work required intense concentration. Opportunities came and went in nanoseconds, and the silence made it easier to hear if someone was coming.

A lot of times, someone _was_ coming. Someone was always chasing us, perhaps because we were trying to hack into Capitol databases and generally wreak havoc. We weren't usually successful in penetrating actual Capitol systems, but we hacked smaller District bases where we could and were sometimes able to send messages to other Districts. I was always looking over my shoulder. It bled into my private life as well. There weren't many people I trusted other than my sister.

Even my computer was doctored to look less suspicious. Most people in Three couldn't afford their own computers. Those who did have them usually cobbled them together from bits of trash and broken factory rejects. That was what mine was as well, but I'd wired one of the buttons to crash the entire system if I pressed it. Everything but the hard drive would be ruined, and the hard drive would encrypt itself in case I was caught. I hadn't gotten caught yet, but I'd known plenty of people who had. My parents, for example, and plenty of other people in our group. That was another reason I didn't trust most people. Some former associates kept their tongues at the expense of someone else's.

Before I turned 13, I used to have a dark sense of humor about the Reapings. I was one of the only twelve-year-olds that wasn't crying. Then I got Reaped. It didn't occur to me that it was probably rigged. All I cared about was the fact that my Alice, my hero and the older girl that fled the orphanage with us, volunteered and died. I didn't joke about the Reaping after that. Everything else, but not the Reaping.

It was still dark when I slipped out of the abandoned building we'd been living in the basement of. We moved around a lot, but it was still best to be discreet. My sister Alexa was with me, and we watched each others' blind spots as we went to the Reaping center. We were probably the only ones more scared of what might happen on the way.

It was hard to be scared of the Reaping when I lived so close to death all the time. I was more scared of betraying my group than dying in an Arena. I kept a nervous eye on the Peacekeepers, wondering if they planned to use this perfect opportunity to trap us. They'd get us both at once, and everyone else of Reaping age in my gang.

"Ether Pascal!"

They only wanted me. And this time, there was no one to volunteer.

* * *

Moses Grintwood- 14

People die in every District. That sounds really dark, but all I meant was that every District needs a mortician. Capitol people surely aren't going to touch gross dead poor people. Mr. Crent says our job is the only one with 100% job security. As long as people die, we'll be here to bury them. Until we die, I suppose. Then someone else will have a job.

The first time I got to see a preparation was the coolest thing ever. I'd always loved to ask questions, but sometimes people got sensitive if you asked how a dead guy died or if they wanted an open casket after his head got squished by a bus. Back in the preparation room, it was just me and Mr. Crent, and he let me ask anything as long as they family wasn't around.

"Ew! Why did he poop his pants?" I asked. I'd _thought_ that was an awful smell, but I assumed it was just the way dead people smelled.

"At the moment of death, the bladder and bowels relax," Mr. Crent explained. I made a note to use the bathroom right before I died so I wouldn't embarrass myself.

"What are you going to do about that?" I asked, pointing at the head. It looked like a dropped watermelon. I would have it would drip all over the table, but it just sat there all jiggly and moist. It hadn't been bleeding even when we first got it.

"The family has requested an open casket," Mr. Crent said.

"That's gonna be nasty," I said. I helped out all the while by washing instruments and helping shift the stiff, heavy body.

"As long as the front is in one or large pieces, it's not that difficult. We empty out the back and piece together the skin to form a loose covering. The hair is washed and arranged to cover the gaps," Mr. Crent said.

"There's no brains in there. It'll be all lumpy," I said.

"We stuff it with styrofoam," he said. He took a gloved hand and started moving some pulpy brain out of the way. "be careful when touching brains. They carry pathogens."

I'd expected to be more grossed out by a dead body, especially one like this, but it wasn't that bad. It smelled so bad I did feel like retching, but it didn't scare me. It was fascinating to see a dead body as the biological machine it was. As I helped Mr. Crent flex and work the limbs so we could get them into place, I could see the muscles and tendons pulling. It was like going to college, but I got paid instead of paying.

When the body was finally done, it still looked lumpy and ugly, but it wasn't terrible. I stayed behind washing things as Mr. Crent spoke to the family. They were distraught and I tended to blurt things. It wasn't a good combination.

* * *

 **Moses has gangly arms, he's meagre and has pimples. He has a long, sharp nose and his eyes are almost black. He has a lot of hair, which is brown-blackish and messy.**

 **Ether has shoulder-length black hair, which seems to be perpetually tangled. She has dull grey eyes, and flimsy glasses. She has a smattering of freckles across her nose. Her skin is quite pale, as she doesn't usually go outside. Ether is also considerably skinny, as she sometimes doesn't have access to food.**


	6. Six Reaping

Marguerite Briem, 18

I hold Sophia's hand tightly as we walk down the street, holding my head high. She looks around nervously at the people that walk around us. Many of their glances stick too long, and there's the occasional sneer from a passerby. Sophia squeezes my hand tighter, and even I feel relieved when we spot the our destination, the dress store, nearby. We cross the street and I let go of Sophia's hand to open the door for her.

"Games freaks!" a man hollers from the sidewalk as I am about to close the store's door behind me. I slam the door closed behind me, refusing to look at the shocked patrons around me. I walk over to Sophia, who is fingering through the rack of the most expensive dresses in the store. After a minute, she picks out a pretty lavender number, and we walk up to the counter to purchase it. I pull out my mother's dark brown leather handbag that she gave me to purchase the dress.

The older woman behind the counter looks at us warily. "I don't think we're selling this dress today," she whispers huskily, and she turns to walk away. I simmer on the inside; I can't stand it when people lie to me. It's easy to tell with this lady. Her posture is all off, and her eyes dart back and forth from the dress to us. That doesn't mean I have to be rude, however. You always have to stay in control of your emotions.

"We want to buy the dress, m'am," I say evenly, smiling kindly. Sophia nods steadily, smiling prettily as well. Our postures are both perfect, and the lady sighs. She knows our family can afford the dress, so she can't turn us away for that either. I know why she won't sell. It's because of what happened last year at the Reaping, the thing my mother forced me and my sisters to do. It was terrible, to say the least, but you cannot disobey your parents.

"That'll be sixty dollars," she murmurs. I pull out the wad of cash, adding a couple dollars as a tip of sorts for letting us buy. Some dressmakers wouldn't even let us enter the store. She nods quickly and shoos us out of the store. Sophia smiles at the beautiful dress as we leave, and I am smiling too until I see a dirty girl, dressed in a ragged white dress covered in stains, glaring enviously at us as we walk up the street. I just shake my head.

Within twenty minutes we're back at the manor. Our big house sits on top of a small hill, overlooking downtown Six. The expansive front yard is already covered in streamers, with huge tables and dozens of chairs strewn about the yard. Several of my mother's hired helpers move about the furniture into different configurations as my mother directs them from a lawn chair. She's shaded by a big umbrella, and she sips from an iced tea.

We walk up the small hill and into the front yard. Our other sister, Josephine, is playing with our border collie. It's just us four girls living on the manor. Sophia runs off to show Josephine her new dress and to get lunch, and I intend to follow her, but my mother calls me over. I do not hesitate, quickly and dutifully striding to her side. I stand next to her, my hands behind my back, looking down at her with a pretty smile on my face.

"Yes mother?" I inquire, looking down at where she languishes on the lawn chair.

"Darling, isn't the set up for this year's festival quite divine?" she questions, taking a lengthy sip from her iced tea.

"Quite, mother," I reply. "Is there something else you wanted to ask me?" I bite my lip, steeling myself for whatever is going to come next. She'll probably ask me to go run another errand or to cheer in approval of two kids getting sentenced to death at the Reaping again this year. See, my mother was a strong loyalist during the Dark Days, and that's why we have so much money. She helped reclaim Six from the rebels and filtered out several of their bases. She supports the Games and celebrates them. While they go on, we have a huge festival that everyone that is anyone in Six attends. My mother makes us watch everything too, and she makes us do crazy things like she did at the Reaping, where she ordered us to cheer for those Reaped, and not in a supportive way. In a I'm-excited-you're-going-to-probably-get-slaughtered way. It makes my blood boil with what she makes us do and the people she's made us into. I hate the Games with a passion, but she'll never know that.

"You know that I'm getting older," she sighs. "You're going to be 19 soon. I...next year, I want you to take over the festival!" she exclaims, sitting up. "It'll be all yours! Isn't that so exciting?! You'll be the talk of the town, my dearest daughter!"

I just stare at her, blankly nodding and smiling as I crumble on the inside. I hate my mother almost as much as I hate the Games and all she's done to us. I don't know if I could ever organize a festival. I would die. I would lose myself. I can't be like my mother.

"Isn't that great, baby?" my mother asks, a little concerned.

"Quite," I say in a clipped tone before walking away. I can't let her see me cry.

* * *

Lonnie Radclyffe, 16

"Lonnie, why are you up so early?" my father asks as I clatter around the small kitchen, already in my oily t-shirt and jeans, the best outfit I own pretty much. He's staggered out of my parents' bedroom, rubbing his eyes groggily, looking at me like I'm crazy. "It's an off-day."

"It's also a Reaping day," I shoot back, pouring some wheat flakes into a bowl and grabbing a spoon. We ran out of milk yesterday, and Mom didn't run to the market yet, so I'll have to eat them dry. My father's eyes shoot open as I begin to shovel cereal into my mouth, and he hobbles off into his bedroom to wake up Mom, who in turn will wake up my little brothers. Within ten minutes, my parents and my little brothers (Ignacio, Jay, and Matthew) are all running around the kitchen, half dressed and trying to get breakfast for themselves. I walk over to the door.

"Where are you going?" Mom pipes up as she pours a bowl of corn flakes for Matthew. "You don't have to be at school today, and your Depot job isn't today." Ah, my Depot job. Once I'm out of school, I'm going to work full time at the train mechanic station, called the Depot by those of us who work there. I just work there part time right now to get experience so I can start getting paid quicker.

"I'm going to pick up Gloria," I mumble, staring at my shoes. My Mom glares at me, and my father looks up from his paper.

"Be careful," is all my father says, and Mom just eyeballs me.

"You better be careful. That's a dangerous neighborhood, Lonnie," she grunts before turning to the sink, where she begins to wash plates.

I leave the house and make the fifteen minute trek from the apartment riddled neighborhood that I live in, that isn't rich but isn't necessarily impoverished either, to Gloria's neighborhood. The air grows thick and smells of fumes as I near her house. Dilapidated houses, some of them still bombed out from the Dark Days and never fixed, line the streets. Welcome to the slums, everybody. Exactly the last place you want to live here in Six, because it's where all the drugs are.

I knock on Gloria's door, and she is waiting right there for me in a pretty orange dress that I know she couldn't have afforded. It must be her late mother's. I grab her hand, and we walk out quickly. I don't ask why she has a poorly concealed bruise on her left shoulder. Her father's a druggie, and he gets abusive when he's going through withdrawal. She's lucky that she hasn't gotten into drugs yet. Gloria's a strong girl, but she's not immune to peer pressure. I don't want to lose her to the drug dens. That's why I need to get a good full time job at the Depot as soon as possible, to get her out. But they won't take my until I graduate from high school, so I have to wait and hope she'll survive.

We walk to the square, which isn't that far from Gloria's house. Already, it's nearly filling to the brim with people, and we're almost late. We rush into the lines, and we stare at each other lovingly until we get our fingers pricked, and then we have to split. I lose her in the sea of sixteen year old girls as she darts off to meet some of her close friends. I find a guy named Gus that I know from the Depot, and we chat aimlessly until the Escort walks out. She picks the girl soon after, and everyone swivels toward the aisle as they call out, "Marguerite Briem!"

There's a chorus of mocking cheers and laughter; she's the rich girl who cheered when the tributes got Reaped last year. Karma's a beehive. She cries quietly as she clambers onto the stage. Then the Escort selects the male tribute, reading off the slip slowly.

"Lonnie Radclyffe!"

I am shocked into silence, unable to even move. I can hear Gloria's anguished screams, and I don't even fight the Peacekeepers as they drag me onto the stage. My mind is spinning in a million directions, and I can't even form a single coherent thought. One comes to the fore front of my mind as I stand next to Marguerite on the stage.

 _I am going to die._

* * *

 **A/N: Tracee here again! Here's Six! I know we're moving a little slow, but we're all focusing more so on our own projects so this might not get updated a crazy lot, but we're not giving up do not worry :)**

 **Marguerite has pale skin with rosy cheeks and blue eyes. She has platinum blonde hair that she often wears in an updo. She often wears pastel-colored clothes. Lonnie is skinny, with brown hair and the beginnings of a beard on his chin. He wears oil-stained clothes.**

 **\- Tracee**


	7. 8 Reaping

**Juki Kearn (15) D8M**

I slipped into the shop as quietly as I could; if I made much noise, Janome would certainly force me into a conversation with him. While I didn't hate my brother, I'd much rather get straight to work than have to spend time in a pointless discussion about which animal is the cutest or which color is the best. I knew I would be able to hear him while I was sewing, anyways, which he didn't seem to understand. He was so loud!

Singer was working on her latest find, which was a badly worn skirt. It was gorgeous, and I could tell it would be expensive. It shimmered in the little light there was in the back of the antique shop, and Capitolites would certainly be attracted to anything shiny. They seemed to usually only want the big, shiny stuff we had so little of, and never seemed interested in the truly beautiful things we had. The skirt was probably the only thing I would agree with them on when it came to fashion, and I didn't mind that. We were all our own person.

Janome was talking with Singer, and I could tell she was bored. While she was often more interested in his conversations than me, she wasn't very talkative either. I walked over to her and offered her the shirt I was working on. "We don't have any of this fabric around, what do you think would work best?" I interjected.

Janome quieted down while Singer walked over to the fabric rack with me. While she was younger than I was, she had a better eye for which fabrics worked with each other. She glanced at me gratefully while she looked through our possible selection, choosing a fabric that matched the shirt's almost perfectly. "Thanks," I commented before walking away. I probably could've found the fabric on my own, but now Singer could start a different converation with my brother- hopefully one she enjoyed.

Exclamations of delight alerted me that Calphurnia had come to our store. Janome dropped what he was doing and ran out to greet her. I moved closer to Singer and we sewed in silence. I blushed a little at how much better she was at sewing than I was, but I knew I was good enough at my job. I had managed to mend a lot of clothes and keep them sellable, so I obviously couldn't stink. I just wished that I was a bit better.

Calphurnia was talking with Janome, and while I couldn't make out a lot of the words, I could catch "A good boy!" and "Now don't go out and get Reaped!" Calphurnia seemed to be one of the only Capitolites that understood that we didn't want to go into the Games. She also seemed to understand that life was valuable and not just something to be thrown away. She always promised that if Janome was reaped she would sponsor him. I hoped she would extend the same generosity to the rest of us.

Our customer walked out of the store with a lovely dress that had just been restored. It was a red fabric with a white silk bow. I was surprised that anyone would be interested in it, but Caphurnia wasn't as eccentric as some. She handed Janome a bunch of candy and told him to share it with us. I knew he probably wouldn't, being as forgetful as he was, but it was nice to know that she remembered us. None of us could afford to be forgetful on the Reaping day.

* * *

 **Parnelle Corwin (14) D8F**

Freda had another nightmare. I could tell without her telling me, seeing as we slept right next to each other. Sure, the abandoned building we lived in was big enough for us to spread out, but without blankets, we couldn't afford to. We wanted to share body heat, so we were always touching. That meant I could feel her shaking in her now restless sleep, and I could begin to imagine what she was dreaming about.

We hadn't been at the factory on the day Mom and Dad died. We had been in our little house, where we belonged, where we should still be. The fact that we weren't present in the factory accident didn't mean that we couldn't imagine everything that happened. Fabric was very flammable. The fire probably spread quickly, burning Mom and Dad to a crisp. They likely weren't granted the escape of smoke inhalation, instead having to feel their flesh be burnt as their life slipped from them. On some days I felt bad for them. Others, I wished I could join them. Sometimes it felt that that would be better than slowly dying and watching my sister fade.

Freda woke up with a jolt and looked at me. She didn't say anything, instead opting just to hug me and cry. I cried right along with her. She was crying because she was sad. I was crying because I knew what was going to happen. While it could happen on any day, the day was likely approaching fast that Freda would starve. I was fading a lot more quickly than she was; she got most of the little food I had. But she was dying all the same, and I found myself sobbing harder than she was in her embrace.

Like every day, we went out to beg on the streets. Some days we got a lot of money. Most of the time, the people in the District couldn't be bothered to help out ugly street kids like us. I knew they could afford it. Not all of them, by any means, but some of them. Some of them were wearing nice tuxes. Some of them were carrying bags of dresses. If they could afford that, they could help us. Most people never would. Why would someone want to help someone other than themselves? It's not like being kind is a thing.

On that day, we made a shockingly large amount of money. I figured it would be enough to get us large meals for a couple of days. Not large by rich people standards, but not the scraps we usually got. At first I thought it was because we had been crying and we looked particularly pathetic. Then I remembered that it was Reaping day. If I of us was reaped, Freda would die. The passerbys probably knew that. They were just giving her a little extra cash, just in case. It wasn't likely that I would be reaped. I never took any tesserae; I needed my parents' permission. Lack of parents made that impossible. I still had a chance though, and any chance was too much.

I forced myself to separate from Freda and walk to the Reapings. I started to shake slightly, and while I expected to get some weird looks, I was surprised to see that almost all of the other kids were shaking too. It made sense. They all had their lives on the line. I was only going to have my life shortened if I was reaped. All of the kids turned to stare as our escort walked on the stage and reached into the bowl for the females. She cried out, clearly and loudly, "Parnelle Corwin!"

My shaking intensified. I couldn't be reaped, it didn't make sense! I couldn't afford it! I began to cry and sob as I knew I was going to die. I was going to die and never see Freda again, never come back home. I walked onto the stage, still shaking and sobbing, as the male was reaped. I didn't care as he walked onto stage next to me. I didn't pay attention when he took my hand. I just wanted to cry.


	8. 10 Reaping

**Charli Bowens (15) D10**

Angus was being annoying, as always, when I got up. He was screeching and running around like a maniac. I didn't get what was wrong with some people. Making a bit of noise is acceptable, but screaming? Why? I covered my ears as I slipped downstairs, trying to go somewhere where he wasn't. I also needed breakfast, but when Angus wanted to be a jerk, that was no priority. If he was screaming something was about to happen, and I didn't want to be between him and the wall he was going to punch.

The oven was on, and I sighed to myself. _Somebody's going to get us killed!_ The oven can't just be left on. It's dangerous. There could easily have been a fire, and none of us would've been able to hear the smoke alarm over Angus. Now that I was watching it as I made some eggs the oven could be on, but not when nobody was watching it. That was just stupid. I pulled some milk from our cow, Bessie, out of the fridge. I know, I know, Bessie is a stupid name for a cow, but when your four-year-old brother insists that the cow be named Bessie, your parents aren't likely to reject him. Ford often got what he wanted, since he knew how to raise a storm louder than Angus.

My eggs broke when I tried to flip them, but I didn't mind too much. I would just eat the eggs without the yolks. I much preferred the whites, anyways. A little bit of salt that my mother didn't know I took and the whites were delicious. My brotheres would rather eat yolks, so I sometimes traded my yolks for his whites. Eating seemed to be the only time that my family members could be civil. I finished eating my eggs and slipped my plate into the sink, smiling since it wasn't my night to do dishes. As annoying as being the only girl in a family of seven is, it has its advantages. My parents think boys are stronger than girls, so I don't have many chores.

I slipped out of the house and ran down the road, seeking some peace and quiet. Lucky me, it was Reaping day. There was no peace and quiet. I found the quietest part of the District I could and sat down, trying to gather my thoughts and hope for the best. Once I realized that it was Reaping day, my emotions crashed. I was crying with my face buried in my knees, and it was all I could do not to start sobbing. I didn't want to be a big baby, but I had to accept that the Reapings were scary. While Angus insisted that they weren't, he was just being a manly man. Reaping are terrifying.

The bells started to ring and I ran to get my finger pricked. I hissed as the needle went into my skin. Getting your blood drawn hurts. Then I went off to join the other fifteen-year-old girls. Lots of them were talking to each other, and I found myself being ignored. I knew it wasn't blatant; it was just that none of them knew me. I could've started a conversation if I had really wanted to, seeing as everybody was a friend on Reaping day. I just didn't feel like getting attached to someone who might die. When the escort called my name, I regretted that. Nobody cared that I got reaped. Even Angus was quiet as tears rolled down my face. I should've known none of them would care. They never did.

* * *

 **Jonathan Hedge (18) D10M**

Farming was no simple task. While it may seem easy, some people had quite difficult jobs. The people who moved cattle, for instance, often had a hard time making sure they didn't run away. The people who carried food to the animals usually carried fifty to a hundred pounds a trip. Other people had to protect the animals. Our family worked with free-range cows. They went wherever they wanted, often near wolf-filled forests. I was the one that made sure wolves didn't kill the cattle.

Our manager was a very cheap man. The only thing I had to protect the herd was my hands and a stick. Being a man whose job was repetitive and boring, I had grown quite the vivid imagination. While everyone else carried a stick, I carried a mighty sword with which I could slay and wolves that tried to harm the animals. That was much more cool and fun to be doing, after all. My dad seemed to think I was crazy, but I knew I was simply keeping myself from becoming so. A human can't stand doing the same thing over and over for such a long time, and I usually didn' t even get to do anything. While wolves were here and there, they weren't everywhere.

From the beginning of the day, I could that that it was going to be exciting. Of course, it was Reaping day, but the cattle seemed to think something else was up. I held my stick more tightly than usual as I scanned for any dangers. I knew it would be a long time until anything popped up, since the cows were slow grazers and we were a long way from anywhere dangerous. That didn't mean I could drop my guard, though. Cattle are surprisingly stupid. Even if there were no wolves around, I had to make sure none of the bulls got into fights. That would be difficult if they close to each other, since all I could really do was scare them. Once a bull's in a fight, it can't be frightened.

Much to my expectations, the herd was slow in its grazing. However, they kept looking around a little bit, and the tension in the air was palpable. One calf wandered away while its mother wasn't looking, and I left to chase it down. Calves were fast even when they were young, and I couldn't afford to give it much of a head start. I had to catch it fast. The herd could take care of itself for a little bit while I found the baby.

The baby managed to get caught in a hole. The ground where we were had almost no holes. It hardly even had a slope. But the calf managed to get caught in a hole. I got down on my knees and fished it our of the pit, grateful that it was still young and reasonably light. It was still hard to lift the dang thing, but I managed. I herded it back to the rest of our animals and learned that the herd couldn't take care of itself while I found the baby.

A bunch of wolves had come to attack the herd. Unless they were extremely lucky wolves, they were smart enough to make sure I was gone before they attacked. I ran towards them and screamed, hoping that they would be intimidated. A few of them were, but I still had a lot of fighting to do. Luckily, a lot of them were pre-occupied. If all of them attacked me at once, I would be doomed. Since it was usually a one-on-one fight, I could run in, bash them on the head, and move on to the next. Wolves didn't like being hit on the head.

The fight dragged on and on, and I was quickly tiring. I almost got stepped on by a cow in the chaos, and my dodge let me straight into the mouth of a wolf. I grimaced as it bit my arm, but I had duties to fulfill. I stabbed it with my stick, which wasn't very pointy, but it was enough that the wolf was upset. They finally began to flee and I herded the cattle back to the other farm hands. They were adults. I had to head to the Reaping.

The Peacekeeper who was supposed to prick my finger took a drop of blood from my arm instead. I shrugged, winced a bit since that hurt my wound, and then walked to my proper section. It was my last year at the Reaping, and I expected to be free. The escort didn't seem to want that, though, and she called out, "Jonathan Hedge!" I walked onto the stage, keeping a straight face as I knew that freaking out wouldn't help my situation. The escort flinched away from my bloodied arm, but I pretended not to notice. I was going to get hurt a lot worse than that in the Games.


	9. Four and Eleven Boys

**I couldn't write recently, since I didn't have either the Four or Twelve girls. I got impatient, so here's the Four and Eleven boys. Once Birkaran and Call me Legend come through, I'll write the girls.**

* * *

Tristan Wells- 17

All life revolved around hunger, even outside the Games. We fished because we wanted to eat. We killed our catches so we could fill our stomachs. We pushed past our distaste at killing the fish that surrounded us, because it was us or them, just like the Games.

It was my father that taught me to fish. My mother also knew how, like everyone else in Four, but my father liked to take me out as bonding time. My mother preferred to bond through other activities, like helping me with my homework. Fishing was our livelihood, but I still enjoyed it. I liked the quiet of the beach and I liked seeing the water and the sky merge in two different shades of blue.

"Spearfishing is harder than it looks," my father told me. We usually used nets and sometimes poles, so this was new to me. He held a rusted steel trident in one strong arm. "You have to throw much harder than you expect- the water slows it down. You also have to throw lower than you expect. Aim lower than you think you have to, and then throw even lower than that." He threw the spear into the water and snared a weed as an example.

"Why would we use a trident? Isn't a net a lot faster?" I asked. A trident could catch one fish at a time. A net could catch hundreds.

"Maybe our net will break, or maybe our boat will sink," he said. We didn't own our own fishing boat, just a wooden rowboat. It was hardly big enough for a net, and storms were impossible.

"Is that the only reason?" I asked. My father lived his life by preparation. There was hardly any situation he hadn't thought of, and I thought I knew his real motivation.

"I wish it was," he said. I was right. Fish weren't the only thing a trident could catch. He untangled the net that lay in the keel.

"It goes a long way back, using a trident on land," my father said. He looked down at the net as he talked, his bronzed hands skillfully untying knots. "They were called Retiaris in Rome. It meant 'fishermen'. They used both trident and net. A heavy net, with weights in the corner. You should learn how to make one. They don't have them in places other than here."

I'd lived in four all my life, and I'd been fishing almost as long. I'd long ago stopped feeling sorry for the fish I killed. It was only life. Life for me meant death for something else. It was different to imagine using my skills on people, but it wasn't impossible. I imagined a net like the one my father held, but with stones tied in the corner so I could throw it even farther. I imagined someone inside it and me standing beside them holding a trident. I could imagine what came next, too. It wasn't pretty, and I hoped it didn't become real. But I'd learned a lot from my father, and I was like him in a lot of ways. You had to be prepared for what might come, and if it did, you had to be ready to act.

Dove Greenling- 12

 _Once upon a time, there was a little boy who lived with his parents in the trees surrounding a coal mine. He was a cute, sweet little boy who adored his mother and father, and he was brokenhearted when a sickness took his mother away when he was only five. His father remarried, but his stepmother was evil. She banished the boy and his big sister to the smallest room in their tiny house, and his father forgot about him. Luckily, none of this affected the boy. He remained the same innocent, loving child he had always been._

That was what my life would be if fairytales were real. They weren't. I was as innocent as coal was white. I sassed my stepmother, gave people what for if they told me I was cute, and stayed out of trouble only because I didn't want to get caught and stared at. Above all, I hated being babied. That was the only good thing about my stepmother. She never did that. People looked at me like I was fresh out of the cradle, but I had my own logic. I was twelve years old. That sounded young, but most people in Twelve didn't make it to fifty. That was half a normal lifespan, which made me twice as old as normal. Really, I was twenty-four. I was no baby.

For someone a little firey and a lot expressive, I had a lot of friends. Ava was stuck with me, since we were siblings and roomed together. The others must have just liked me. We hung out together a lot, since most of them lived in houses as small and rickety as mine. There wasn't much to do in Eleven, so we often hung out in the market. None of us could afford anything, but it was fun to look.

The marketplace in Eleven was a land of opposites. Everything was too expensive for us to afford, but nothing was actually valuable. Standards here were so low that scraps of fabric suitable only for patch quilts cost more than I saw in months. Despite my impeccable logic about lifespans and mathematics, the overseer was not moved when I said that really, I should be allowed to work in the higher-paying adult jobs. Even in a year, I couldn't have afforded any of the things I wanted to buy.

Before he got all spacey, my dad used to say he picked the wrong name for me. He said he should have called me Mapgie. I had a most incongruous love of pretty things for a very plain and pragmatic boy. I loved anything shiny or intricate or decorative, especially things with jewels. Not real jewels, since there weren't any in Twelve, but rhinstones or shiny glass or even plastic. There were so many ugly things in Eleven, from the piles of overturned dirt to the calluses on our hands. Colorful, shiny things seemed like magic. But magic wasn't real, and I was no prince. But I wasn't a child, either.


	10. District 12 Reapings

**Reina Bolstad (18) D12F**

 _The pain was unbearable. It had to be over soon. I would have considered just letting go if it wasn't for one annoying fact. I couldn't let myself die. It wouldn't be one death if I died. It would be two. I let out another scream and our doctor rushed into the room, hands clearly barely clean from taking care of his other patient. "Are you okay?"_

 _No words needed to be spoken with the look I shot at him. Of course I wasn't okay. A human was coming out from between my legs. My mother probably wasn't okay either, seeing as I was squishing her hand until it was red. She just looked down at me lovingly the entire time, smiling about the "exciting surprise" she had for me. I had hoped it would be a present for the baby. It turned out to be nothing I could have ever expected._

 _As soon as the first cry of my baby could be heard, I knew it was a girl. I tried to think up a name. I probably should have used the previous nine months to think one up, but I was a bit preoccupied with the fact that I had suddenly gotten pregnant. As I asked to hold the baby, the doctor whisked it away. That couldn't have been standard procedure. My mother smiled ever more brightly and me and asked, "Aren't you happy? You don't have to take care of it! You don't even need to remember it!"_

 _I wanted to scream. I would have screamed if it wasn't for the fact that the doctor probably would have fainted._ That _was the surprise? I had gone through all of that and created a beautiful baby girl- sure, I hadn't seen her, but I knew she was beautiful- just to have my mother take it away. Sure, I wasn't necessarily entirely fit to be a mother. Nobody in Twelve was. I could take care of that baby better than anyone else. However, I just smiled. "Thank you."_

Cyndie's call snapped me out of my trance. Every day I remembered what had happened to my little girl. I didn't think a girl my age was capable of loving like that. Even the boy who had gotten me pregnant wasn't that loved. Having a one-night stand seemed like a good idea at the time. Getting drunk and having sex definitely wasn't a good idea. However, I loved that girl. Nobody could tell me otherwise. My parents could believe otherwise, and they always would. They never had to know that the only reason I still lived with them despite the decent amount of cash I had was that I was saving to find my girl. They never had to know that I was going to leave as soon as I found her. "Earth to Reina!"

"Sorry, Cyndie. Just thinking. Are you looking forward to the Reapings?" I smiled cheekishly at her. Nobody was looking forward to the Reapings. I just wanted to see her response.

"Of course not, idiot. But we do need to get ready. Collect your paycheck before you go. If you get Reaped he won't pay you." Cyndie seemed particularly coldhearted that day. Of course, she always was coldhearted, but it was to a much higher level than normal. I assumed it was because it was our last Reaping day. After that, we could live in peace.

I didn't bother with getting my check. It was hardly anything, and I probably wouldn't get Reaped anyways. Even if I got Reaped, I wouldn't care about the money. I would either be too rich or too dead to be bothered. I just got up and walked to my house with Cyndie. It wasn't a very long walk. The bookstore was in the center of town and my house was only a couple of blocks off. The walk took longer than normal, and I knew we were both procrastinating. "What outfit do you want to wear today?"

Many people think everyone in Twelve is dirt poor. While many people are dirt poor, that's not always the case. I didn't have too much clothing, but I had enough that I could choose my outfit daily, and that was more than enough to keep me content. I usually didn't mind having some dirt on my shirts or pants, since getting it off was pointless. However, on my last Reaping day, I decided to wear something special. I pulled a leather jacket out of my closet and put it on over my blue shirt. The jacket was easily the most expensive thing I owned, and it rarely came off its hanger. Cyndie could tell I was excited just by the fact I put it on. She took that as a good sign and dragged my nicest pants off the shelf. I didn't mind. She could wear 'em.

The walk to the Reaping center was about as long in feet as the walk to the bookstore. However, in time, it was far longer. We walked more slowly than normal, talking about all the controversial things only someone in Twelve could get away with talking about. All the Peacekeepers assigned to our District were busy taking care of getting everyone checked in. No one could hear us discussing how much of a jerk the President was or how the Careers were totally breaking the law.

We reached the Reaping center as the bells finished ringing. I glared at the Peacekeeper as he pricked my finger. With any luck he would assume I was glaring because of the current pain and not because he was likely dragging someone to his death. He just nodded at me and let me get into line, holding Cyndie close to me. We all watched in anticipation when our escort called the name. Almost all of us sighed with relief when we heard it. Cyndie was crying. I just gritted my teeth and walked up to the stage, holding myself tightly to avoid shaking. The Games were no big deal, right? I could just win them and use the money to find my baby. Definitely.

* * *

 **Jarrett Colson (18) D12M**

Baby Michelle cooed and giggled as I bounced her up and down on my knee. Jolie was yelling at me to get ready for the Reapings, but that could wait. I had a baby to play with. I had time to play with the baby every day, but all the time in the world couldn't be enough. My little girl deserved all the love I could give her. If that meant smelling and being in my worst set of clothes when I got to the Reapings, so be it. She was too perfect for me to leave.

"Jarrett, as Michelle's mother I demand that you get up and get ready for the Reapings!" Jolie spoke in a stern tone, holding her hands out in a way that obviously meant she wanted me to hand over the baby, but she didn't yell. She wasn't being nice to me. She was being nice to the baby. She knew that if she yelled the baby would cry, and she didn't want that to happen. The odds were slim that she cared about the baby past that fact. While she wasn't a particularly bad mother, she never showed too much interest in the child, allowing me to take care of her.

"Well, as her father, I politely decline. It's not like it matters how I look if I get Reaped." Jolie glared at me but didn't speak for a minute, allowing me to play with Michelle for a while longer while Jolie gathered her thoughts.

"As her aunt I tell you to give her to me."

"As her uncle I decline." Jolie and I were the baby's parents and an aunt and uncle. Being a homosexual boy doesn't work very well if you want kids, so Jolie stepped in to help me out. It was more than most people could expect of a sister, and I was incredibly grateful for it. I wasn't quite as excited as Mitchell was about the baby originally, but when she was born, it was clear who was going to spoil her more.

Jolie gave me a look that would have killed me if looks were capable of that. She knew I wasn't actually that rude. I just wanted more time to play with the baby. She always payed more attention to looks than I did, though, and she wanted me to look my finest. I sighed and handed the baby off to her, quickly washing off and changing into a slightly better outfit. In no more than five minutes I was back in the room, asking for my daughter back. My sister smiled and complied, apparently no more excited to hold a baby than I was to change. I didn't know why she insisted upon making me change and give her the baby if she was so uninterested in her, but I had to accept it. I kind of owed her one.

The Reaping bells rang and I got up. I hated to leave Michelle behind, but I handed her to my parents and got up. Michelle didn't belong around that much terror. I walked to the center before the bells were done, which was lucky, since not doing so was a shootable offense. By the time I had worked my way through the line and made it to me section, the escort was already calling the male name. "Jarrett Colson!"

Silence struck the center. Everyone was probably relieved when the girl was Reaped, but I was a different subject. They knew I had a kid. They knew Mitchell was dead. While they all pitied me and my baby, nobody volunteered for me. I knew they wouldn't. I wanted to scream or cry, but I couldn't. I had to pretend to be strong for the sponsors. The best I could manage was not shaking and a weak smile. I hardly did as well as my District partner. She seemed determined to get back home, but everybody was. I had a goal. Nothing could separate me from my daughter.


	11. Nine Reaping

**A/N: Enjoy our visit to District Nine! :D I wrote too much again XD - Tracee**

* * *

Amaryllis Goldleaf, 17

I jog down the rain soaked cobblestone street in my cushy hospital-approved tennis shoes. The houses that line the street seem to almost sag underneath the force of the pounding downpour, and the only light is from the streetlights. It's late at night; my coworker and friend, Georgette, and I work the night shift at the hospital along with Dr. Reece. It's the only time I can work, as during most of the day, I have to take care of my siblings while my parents and older brother Tomas work in the fields. Tonight was especially tiring. Georgette's out with the flu, and Dr. Reece and I had to take care of a couple whose house caught on fire. It wasn't a fun night by any stretch of the imagination, but the couple got fixed up and I got my money, and that's all that matters really. At least it was busier than most nights. In this little farming village, we usually don't have much to do besides routine checkups and injuries from working in the fields.

I spot our house through the gloom of the sodden night, Mom's precious silvery candelabra marking our home's place with its six flickering candles. I haul myself up the three cracked cement steps up to the front door. It's unlocked, and I slide inside, pulling off my shoes and setting down my work satchel. I sigh as I collapse into the puffy armchair in the sitting room, and I close my eyes for all of thirty minutes until I feel a finger prodding me.

My little eight year old brother, Myrtle, has squeezed himself in next to me on the armchair. It's only two in the morning, but he's already up. I already know what's wrong before he even starts to speak. After Mom and Dad let him watch the Eighteenth Games a while ago, thinking he was old enough, he's been having nightmares. The little girl from our District was killed in her sleep by the Victor. He keeps seeing shadowy men coming to kill him in his sleep.

"I...they were coming for me, Ammy-" Myrtle hiccups, and I shush him quickly, holding him against my chest and stroking his silky chestnut brown hair, about the same shade as mine. Within minutes, he's fallen asleep against my chest, clinging to my right shoulder with his little fists. As he falls deeper into rest, his grip loosens. I haul him like a sack of flour over my shoulder, up the stairs and back into the one of the two rooms on the top floor: the boys room. My four other brothers slumber there, and I lay Myrtle back down on his lumpy cot that he shares with Sage before creeping out of the room.

Despite my best efforts, I can't fall back asleep. I sit in the armchair that serves as my bed for a few hours until it's around six in the morning. Dawn will soon break, and those of us that work in the fields are getting up. My parents shuffle out of their little cupboard of a room behind the kitchen, while Tomas skids down the stairs, still groggy. After all, my hospital shift does start at eight in the night, so he has to take care of the kids until they go to bed for several hours. He probably had to put Myrtle back to bed before I got home. I join them at the worn kitchen table. My father as yesterday's newspaper sprawled out on the table in front of him, while my mother cooks up some eggs for the four of us and Tomas goes through the mail, pulling out the bills and personal letters and throwing the scant advertisements away. My mother serves up the eggs. Tomas grins, my father gives a small smile, and I just nod my head curtly, gobbling down my breakfast quickly.

"All these terrorist cullings," my father mumbles, sipping black coffee from a worn mug. Tomas and Mom also drink black coffee to get them awake enough for their strenuous shifts out in the fields. "They're killing all these people in Six, Eight, and Eleven. Even here. There was an attack in Starley last weekend. Twenty six dead, thirteen injured."

"H-how terrible," my mother says between bites of her food. She finishes her eggs quickly and then bursts to her feet to quickly clean up. I weigh what to say carefully. I've read up on the subject, and it seems that they're some sort of quasi-rebellious group called Christians that are being murdered. I don't want to say the wrong thing. It's horrible that they're being killed, but they'd probably die at the hands of the Capitol anyway. Rebellion never works out. Ask the hundreds of thousands of District citizens who died in vain during the Dark Days. I just keep my mouth shut through the rest of breakfast.

By the time my parents and Tomas are ready to leave, the other nine children in the family are awakening. Rosemary is the first to make it downstairs. She wakes up angry, travels throughout the day angry, and goes to sleep angry. She wants to quit school and work in the fields with the others, but my parents won't let her. After her is a trickle of all the smaller kids. The last one down is a shivering Kane, clutching a book to his chest. I hop over to the stove and toaster, making toast and scrambled eggs for the lot of them as our three field workers depart with small smiles and waves. Ivy clings to Mom, but she shakes her off with an airy laugh. Once they're gone, it's just me and the kids. It's around seven in the morning now. The sun's up, and the school bus will be at the top of the street in a half hour. The next thirty minutes are a blur of getting everyone ready except the twelve year old twins, Willow and Lily, and Kane, who's a year older. The way school works in Nine is convoluted and doesn't make a whole lot of sense, but basically every grade gets a day off per week to work if their parents allow them to, as well as having summer off. It's sweet for the kids compared to the all year round schooling places like Six and Eight have installed, but not so sweet for caretakers like me. I could work an extra shift if I didn't have to stay hope and tend to my siblings every day.

Willow, Lily, and Kane pull out a jigsaw puzzle to try and finish by the end of the day, and I leave them locked in the house for ten minutes as I walk the other six up to the bus stop. The two dozen other kids who live in the neighborhood come as well, and I stand with a flock of parents and older siblings as the yellow bus coughs its way down the street. The only reason we get a bus is because our village doesn't have a school of its own, and we have to have our kids get driven six miles west to the bigger city of Staff. I watch my charges march onto the bus, and then I rush back home to find Willow, Lily, and Kane all sitting safely on the floor of the sitting room, fitting together a jigsaw puzzle of a wooded glade, probably in Seven. I sigh and let myself slump into my armchair and rest for a little bit more. It's a rest well deserved in my opinion.

* * *

Samson Honey, 18

What's the most you've ever lost on a coin toss?

I've known people who've lost their fortunes, their wives, their jobs, their possessions, their credibility, heck, even their lives. Yet they keep rolling that die, they keep pushing forth their pile of poker chips, they keeping nodding their heads when the dealer asks if they want in on the next round. They love the rush of putting everything and anything on the line. They thrive off of the adrenaline and the endorphins and the sweet high that comes after a victory.

For me, it's really just about the money. And what you can buy with that money. So, in my case, shoes.

I collapse on my bed, the springs creaking beneath me as I shift around until I'm comfortable. My limbs ache faintly from my work earlier in the day. My fingers snake their way into the pockets of my cargo shorts, pulling out the wad of bills that I won against a few drunk Peacekeepers at the town tavern just a half hour ago. I smell like cheap wine and cigar smoke, but there's no one here to notice. I rent the loft of a small cottage that an elderly woman named Loretta lives in. Loretta's out at the funeral of her brother somewhere in the north of the District, where she was born, and she won't be back for two weeks. She's past the point of scolding me for my gambling, anyway, and it's not like I drink or smoke at all really. The best gambling just seems to happen at the seediest places.

My mind quickly wanders to the subject that's been playing in my mind recently. Tomorrow is my last Reaping. A lot of people would be extremely relieved; I'm eighteen, and after tomorrow I'll be free to pursue fame and fortune without the ever present threat of possible entrance into the Hunger Games. But what most people see as a problem I see as an opportunity. I'm strong and fit, and with the money from the Games I could do whatever the hell I want and gamble to my heart's content. I could buy millions of shoes and I'd be famous, extremely so. I could volunteer tomorrow and win the Games, and live the dream.

But then, of course, there's a high chance that I'll die. That doesn't nag at me much at all, despite knowing I should really care about what happens to my life in the Games. I've never really been that scared of death or hurting myself, I guess. Don't know why. I'll never get to gamble again if I lose, and I'll never get to travel the District and Panem, etc. There's several good pros, but several pros of equal vigor and strength. As I always do, I don't decide on what to do with logic or intellect or instinct like most people do. I let fate decide for me.

I sit up on my bed and reach over to my nightstand, my fingers probing in the dark until they skid across the ribbed, chilly edge of the decider of fates. The steadfast, impartial dictator of what happens to me as I venture through life. A quarter.

My fingers wrap around the coin, and I turn on my lamp before taking the quarter in my hand. If I flip the coin, and it lands on heads, you'll hear my voice piercing the humid summer air that plagues Nine during the Reaping Day. If it lands on tails, you'll see me frequenting the taverns and strip clubs of Nine for the rest of my years, stealing piles of cash and coins from drunkards, Peacekeepers, chronic gamblers, and others alike.

In one fluid movement, I catapult the coin through the air. It lands on the carpet next to my bed, and I stoop down to see what destiny has dictated. I don't feel much as I pick up the coin, studying the tails side of the quarter. Alright. So I'm not volunteering. I can make my fortune and fame here without having to risk my life.

With that matter settled, I set my trusty quarter back on the nightstand before turning off the lamp and burying myself under the covers of my bed. Tomorrow's going to be rife with betting; Games season always generates an insane amount of gambling and the like. I can't wait to see what surprises fate brings my way in the morning.


	12. Eleven Reaping

**Here's the girl!**

* * *

Manzana Mezquino, 17 (D11F)

It always seems like the Capitol watches everyone every second of the day. They can't really, of course, but it looks like they can. The reason for that is people like me.

I had a nice job in the fields. I was still in the fields- an unfortunate situation I intended to soon correct- but I worked by the machines, in the shade of their shadows. It was barely work at all, really. All I had to do was keep an eye on the conveyor belt and make sure nothing jammed up. If it did, I just shoved the pile of fruit blocking the line and it tumbled off. I did have one other duty, though.

One of the girls tossing beets onto the belt was up to something. She was looking up and around, instead of down at the beets she was pulling from the ground. Her eyes darted around the field again, and her hand went to her side.

"Overseer! Overseer!" I yelled. Everyone looked up at the noise, and when they saw it was me, they looked back down hurriedly. All but the girl my cry was targeted at. She looked at me with pleading in her eyes and pressed her fists to her mouth in silent supplication. Overseer Dan came over from his perch on top of the harvester and stopped beside me.

"She stole one," I said, pointing at the girl. The workers around the girl got up off their knees and scattered as she looked around at them. Overseer Dan signaled to the trio of Peacekeepers that were always on duty and one of them started toward the girl. She didn't say anything as he came over, but she quailed down against the ground. The Peacekeeper shoved her onto her side and pawed at her dress, retrieving the stolen beet. He took out his whip and started into her as she screamed. Overseer Dan nodded his thanks at me.

A lot of people wanted my cush, easy job. I had to be at the top of my gain to keep my place. It wasn't the only thing my services got me, either. I was the highest paid of the non-management field workers, and my breaks always lasted a little bit longer. My days were a little bit shorter, and the Peacekeepers never gave me trouble if I slacked off.

After hours, it was the same story. If someone was out after curfew, I was the little birdie that told the Peacekeepers. I was the only person I knew who had a portable phone, which I used to make calls if someone was talking of rebellion or planning on making trouble. Everyone hated me, and I was indifferent to them. If it meant I got a new dress or a warm cinnamon roll or some purple nail polish, it was worth it. The only person I lived my life for was myself.

* * *

Dove Greenling- 12

 _Once upon a time, there was a little boy who lived with his parents in the trees surrounding a coal mine. He was a cute, sweet little boy who adored his mother and father, and he was brokenhearted when a sickness took his mother away when he was only five. His father remarried, but his stepmother was evil. She banished the boy and his big sister to the smallest room in their tiny house, and his father forgot about him. Luckily, none of this affected the boy. He remained the same innocent, loving child he had always been._

That was what my life would be if fairytales were real. They weren't. I was as innocent as coal was white. I sassed my stepmother, gave people what for if they told me I was cute, and stayed out of trouble only because I didn't want to get caught and stared at. Above all, I hated being babied. That was the only good thing about my stepmother. She never did that. People looked at me like I was fresh out of the cradle, but I had my own logic. I was twelve years old. That sounded young, but most people in Twelve didn't make it to fifty. That was half a normal lifespan, which made me twice as old as normal. Really, I was twenty-four. I was no baby.

For someone a little firey and a lot expressive, I had a lot of friends. Ava was stuck with me, since we were siblings and roomed together. The others must have just liked me. We hung out together a lot, since most of them lived in houses as small and rickety as mine. There wasn't much to do in Eleven, so we often hung out in the market. None of us could afford anything, but it was fun to look.

The marketplace in Eleven was a land of opposites. Everything was too expensive for us to afford, but nothing was actually valuable. Standards here were so low that scraps of fabric suitable only for patch quilts cost more than I saw in months. Despite my impeccable logic about lifespans and mathematics, the overseer was not moved when I said that really, I should be allowed to work in the higher-paying adult jobs. Even in a year, I couldn't have afforded any of the things I wanted to buy.

Before he got all spacey, my dad used to say he picked the wrong name for me. He said he should have called me Mapgie. I had a most incongruous love of pretty things for a very plain and pragmatic boy. I loved anything shiny or intricate or decorative, especially things with jewels. Not real jewels, since there weren't any in Twelve, but rhinstones or shiny glass or even plastic. There were so many ugly things in Eleven, from the piles of overturned dirt to the calluses on our hands. Colorful, shiny things seemed like magic. But magic wasn't real, and I was no prince. But I wasn't a child, either.


	13. Four Girl

**I made a Four girl since ours fell through. We're not really doing Careers, but Pearl is HARDLY Career material. And she's mine so it's not like she's going to do well.**

* * *

Pearl Astor, D4 (17)

" _Daddy!"_

My father came rushing in from his study, where he was doing some unimportant work when he should have been paying attention to me.

"I want to volunteer," I said.

"For what, darling?" he asked.

"For the _Hunger Games,_ of course," I said.

"What? Why?" he asked.

"Because I want to! You _do_ think I'd win, don't you?" I asked. Daddy was always telling me I could do anything I wanted. I didn't need him to tell me what I already knew, but it was nice to hear him say it.

"Of course, angel! It's just, the Games are so... dirty. You deserve better," he said.

"I want to volunteer," I repeated. "I want to win and get all the prizes and be famous."

"You're already famous," my father said. True, I _was_ the prettiest and most eligible debutante of Four, but that wasn't enough. I wanted to be the prettiest and most eligible debutante in the _country._

"Why are you being so difficult? I told you I want to volunteer!" I said. Daddy never gave me this much trouble. He ran Four's biggest cannery, so I could have anything I wanted. I had dresses and jewelry and a sailboat, but I didn't have a Victor's crown yet. Eighteen people had one and I didn't. That was unacceptable.

"Wouldn't you rather have a party instead? It's been almost a month since you had a ball," my father said.

"All right, let's have a party," I said. " _And_ I want to volunteer."

Of course Daddy gave in. He had some suggestions, though. He said even though I was going to win no matter what, it would be easier and I wouldn't have to spend so much time in a barbaric Arena if I had some preparation. He hired some crazy "survivalist" tutor and a fighting instructor and pleaded with me to please spend at least one hour a week training. I did it just to make him happy, but I didn't waste any more time than I had to. My time was better spent designing the dress I'd wear on my victory tour and thinking about how I'd choose from all the hot bachelors who would want to date me. And how _many_ hot bachelors I'd choose.

It was only right I would win the Games. The Victors so far had been a bunch of dirty, uncultured peasants. I had class and grace and poise. I should be the face of Panem, not those unwashed masses. Poor people didn't even know what to do with that much money. They'd squander it on fripperies and end up poorer than before. It was better for us rich people to keep making money. We took care of the poor. My daddy gave one percent of our income to charity every year.

It would be even better when I was the Victor. It was too bad about the other 23 kids who would have to die, but their lives weren't really worth living anyway. Once I won, I would be good to the little people. I would hire dozens of servants, and they could eat all my leftovers. I'd even build them little huts or something. I was such an angel. I deserved to win.


	14. New Eleven Girl

**We got an actual 11F submission, so here she is. Manzana will probably move into one of Jay's slots if he takes us up on our suggestion that he just write the boys and we take his girls since he finds boys easier.**

* * *

Orsay Orchards, D11F (13)

It took me a month to save up for the frilly pink dress I was wearing as I went door-to-door selling cookies. I hated frilly pink dresses. It was entirely an investment purchase. Since I got it, my income rate had doubled. The dress was perfectly picked. It was a size smaller than it should have been, so it was short on my legs and tight on my arms, making me look skinny and spindly and like I couldn't afford one that fit. My glasses had a carefully placed smudge of dirt on them, furthering the urchin look. I wasn't selling the bland, bitter cookies made of tesserae flour and whatever I had lying around. I was selling the presentation.

"Good morning," I said when a man answered the door. "Would you like to buy a cookie? It's only half a coin."

"Half a coin?" the man asked as he looked at my wide, blinking eyes. "I'll have to buy two, then." I took his coin with a grateful smile and parceled out two cookies. When he closed the door, I continued on my carefully selected route. I had it down to a science. I made sure to hit different parts of the District every week, so that by the time I got back to any one place again, the people had forgotten how bad the cookies were and thought that maybe by now I'd improved the recipe. I also understood that charity fatigue was a real thing. I didn't want to get greedy and drain the well completely.

It must have all seemed very cynical, but I didn't mean to be a misanthrope. I just wanted to get out of Eleven, and that took a lot. It took concrete goals and hard work. The end goal was to go to the Capitol and work in business, but they didn't take just anyone. They took very few people, and _very_ few from the Districts. I would need demonstrable business skill and a _lot_ of money. Selling cookies wouldn't get me all the way there, but it could get me enough capitol to move into bigger ventures. Someday, I could take off this awful abomination of a dress and upgrade to a sleek suit.

My cheeks ached from smiling so much and my voice was thin from the cute falsetto I adopted during business hours. Smiles weren't exactly natural for me. There never seemed to be much to smile about in Eleven. The orchards were full of bright colors and smells, but it always seemed like my glasses had a gray tint. By the time everything reached my brain, it was muted and washed out. Life was all right, but nothing to get excited about. Maybe the Capitol would be more stimulating.

We didn't actually need the tesserae. By Eleven standards, my family was rich. Mostly "rich" meant we didn't need tesserae. Anyway, I took one out every two months to have materials for my business. It was a risk, but reward was proportional to risk. Eleven was a big place, and plenty of kids took out multiple tesserae per month. Percentagewise, my tiny intake didn't affect my chances. If that was what it took to get me out of this place and into the elite, I'd roll the dice. I reached another door and knocked melodically.

"Good morning. Would you like to buy a cookie?"


End file.
